


Hard to Believe You Could Cause Me Harm

by genocideandgenesis



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Angst, Backstory, Blood and Injury, Body Horror, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Gen, Surgery, Unsafe Medical Procedures, self-injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-13
Updated: 2015-09-13
Packaged: 2018-04-20 13:22:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4788776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/genocideandgenesis/pseuds/genocideandgenesis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The metal plate was supposed to keep Bill Cipher out, not serve as an invitation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hard to Believe You Could Cause Me Harm

**Author's Note:**

> Lots of warnings for this one, including: descriptions of shaving (very brief); cutting; surgery; poorly executed medical procedures; general warnings for Bill Cipher, lots of gross relationship dynamics, and blood. There's a lot of blood. Basically, Stanford installs a metal plate in his head, and it's described pretty thoroughly.
> 
> Without further ado... a dark, dark night in Gravity Falls awaits...

It was midnight. Snow drifted across Gravity Falls, clinging to the trees, melting against warm rooftops. Outside the house deep in the woods, snowdrifts had blown up against the door in a freezing barrier, and fine spiderwebs of ice clung to the windows.

Stanford Pines regarded the left side of his head in the dingy bathroom mirror. It had been quite some time since he had had a haircut, and his hair had grown thick around his ears, standing up a little bit in the back. He hadn’t been sleeping well, and the last time he had gotten any sleep—well, he wasn’t going to dwell on that.

He picked up the razor beside the sink and held it to his head. Did he just shave his hair without any preamble? He’d put water on it to make it wet, but hadn’t added soap. This would have to do.

The first patch of hair came off easily, and then the second, and soon the sink was littered with chunks of hair. Stanford ran his fingers along his head, gauging how much space he would need, and determined that he had shaved enough. He looked at his reflection, which stared quizzically back at him. It wasn’t a good look, but his pursuits regarded self-defense, not self-improvement via hairstyle change.

He put down the razor and left the bathroom without cleaning the sink. He could tend to it later.

The heat had been turned off in his house because he had forgotten to pay the bill, but he was warm enough. He was warm enough. He rubbed his numb hands together, his breath forming small puffs in the dark of the upstairs. It had been some time since he had been up here. Maybe he should eat? No, no, he had work to do.

He rode the elevator down to his workspace, where he had covered a table with a spare sheet from upstairs, a scalpel, thread, and, of course, the ever-important metal plate.

“Is anyone down here?” Stanford called, his voice echoing in the seemingly empty space.

There was no answer, but that didn’t mean that he was alone. The images of Bill were still covered by the sheets he had added, but he adjusted all of them, just for good measure, scrubbing his hands together as if to clean them.

His eyes were wide, and blurred with lack of sleep, but he would be able to rest after this. He squeezed his eyes shut, shook his head, and forced thoughts of Bill from his mind, just in case they got trapped inside his brain during the process.

No, no, that was ridiculous. Ridiculous! He’d manufactured the plate too carefully. Even if—he shuddered against his will—Cipher _did_ manage to get trapped in his brain, he’d be repelled and leave. Of course he would leave.

“Never thought I would do this, did you?”

In the shadows of his workspace, he thought he could hear Bill’s taunting voice: _IT’S BECAUSE OF ME THAT YOU’RE DOING THIS IN THE FIRST PLACE, SIXER! IT’S ALL PART OF THE PLAN._

“NO IT ISN’T!” Stanford shouted into the silence.

Outside, the snow fell.

* * *

There were two latex gloves lying on the table. After taking a deep breath, Stanford pulled them on, scrunching two fingers into one rubber casing to make room. He wiggled his fingers at himself. It was cold, and his hands were shaking, but he cupped them to his mouth and breathed into them, trying to feed his numb fingers some warmth.

On the table in front of him, the somber line of sharp instruments glinted in the dim light.

Above the table, he had set up a mirror, so he could see the incisions properly; it would be important for him to get this exactly right. There was no room for error, not when Bill might swoop in at any second, especially if Stanford’s guard was down.

Stanford cast a glance around the room, eyeing the sheets covering the images of Bill, feeling the thin barrier between Bill’s world and his tremble, as if the muse—the _demon_ —were on the other side of it, pressing his thin hands against it, causing subtle ripples in the universes that they had once shared, the universes that divided them now.

He couldn’t think about that now, not when there was the visceral possibility that Bill could be watching, trying to slip his way into his very thoughts and stay trapped there. He couldn’t let that happen.

He would need to be sitting for this. Using anesthesia was out of the question; it would compromise his mental faculties, and he anticipated that if he used painkillers in any way during this procedure, it would keep his mind open to potential invasion. He closed his eyes. Even thinking of Bill was a risk. His very understanding of the mindscape itself was still developing—no, no, it was _not_ something he was still pursuing. Mentally he corrected himself: his understanding of the mindscape was limited, and after tonight, he was not going to consider it ever again.

The chair, wooden and stiff-backed, was waiting for him. Stanford sat down in it and the chair forced his back straight, forced his knees into right angles, kept his feet flat on the floor. He closed his eyes. Now, or never.

His eyes snapped open of their own accord.

Stanford’s hands shook as he grabbed the scalpel. It wasn’t like he had never dissected anything before, but he had never sliced through his own skin, never felt the blade against his own flesh.

He leaned close to the mirror, eyeing the mark he would need to make.

All around him, he imagined the covered images of Bill to be watching him, burning through the cloth that covered them.

Shuddering, Stanford placed the cold sharp metal against his scalp.

He pressed down and sliced wide, from just above his ear to the back of his head, and he could feel the blade bite into his skin. The warmth of blood came first, and then the sting, and then a deep, sharp pain.

Eyes squeezed shut, he sank his teeth into his bottom lip as the first drops of blood fell to the floor.

He stayed still, muscles tense, listening. The only thing he could hear was the wind outside.

Resisting the urge to thumb at the slice in his skin, Stanford repositioned the knife, shifted his grip, and pulled it slowly upward.

It hurt more the second time, and he could feel the flap of skin at the corner where the first incision intersected with the consequent one. The edges of his vision blurred, but he pressed on, his fingers gripping the knife tightly.

Breathing heavily, Stanford finished the cut and let his trembling hands fall to his lap, still loosely gripping the scalpel. Two cuts was not enough; he needed to make a three-way cut so he could slide in the metal plate, but the shadows around the edges of his vision were already crowding his sight, and the room had begun spinning.

Stanford gripped the edge of the table, clutching to the sharp corner with his fingers tight enough that the pressure and the ache started to distract him from the burning pain in his scalp.

The scalpel clattered to the table and he pressed hard against his head. He—he needed to make another incision, needed to peel away the skin and slide the plate into its place, nestled against his skull—

Stanford pressed his hand to the dripping blood of his scalp. The stubble of his freshly shaved head was rough through the latex glove. 

He clenched his teeth against each other until he could hear them grinding in his ears and feel the creak of his jaw.

As his vision wavered, he could hear it, that echoing voice still raw, still familiar: _NOT AS EASY AS YOU THOUGHT IT WOULD BE, EH, STANFORD PINES?_

“Get out of here!” Stanford commanded. “I never want to speak with you again! Leave at—at once!”

He could hear Bill’s laughter, but nothing else.

He had to finish this. He had to get the plate in and stitch it up tight to keep it there.

He grabbed the scalpel and pressed it to his scalp, cutting without looking first where to cut.

Blood dripped heavily onto his hand. Head wounds always bled a lot: that was something he had read, something he had anticipated, but the warmth against his hands, the pain against his scalp, _that_ was something he had not prepared himself for.

He closed his eyes.

 _WELL WELL WELL WELL WELL,_ came the echoing voice.

His eyes snapped open. Directly in front of him was a cloth-draped image of Bill himself, and even if Stanford could not see it, he knew it was there; he had put it there of his own volition.

“I’ll take a torch to you, Cipher!” he growled, even as his voice broke and he bit down hard to stop himself from crying out. It was his mind, playing tricks on him. Bill wasn’t really there.

Stanford sucked in a deep breath. He needed to make one more incision, but the spots across his vision weren’t going away, and he couldn’t see where he was cutting anymore.

_GIVING UP ALREADY, ARE YOU? HAHA! LOOKS LIKE NOT EVERYONE HAS WHAT IT TAKES TO SLICE OPEN A GOOD BRAIN!_

“NO!” he shouted, and cut through the skin of his scalp, faster, deeper, and bloodier than before. The pain was quick this time, splitting through his skin and spreading across his scalp, sharp, insistent, and worse. He sucked in an unsteady breath and pitched forward, eyes closing, scalpel falling from his limp fingers to the floor.

“WELL, WELL, WELL,” said Bill Cipher, “LOOKS LIKE SOMEONE WASN’T CUT OUT TO PLAY DOCTOR, EH, STANFORD PINES? CUT OUT! THAT WAS A GOOD ONE!”

Stanford opened his eyes, and instead of seeing his own workplace, found that he was standing in an open clearing, shifting ground beneath his feet, the dilapidated remains of a wooden boat rotting in the distance. His body trembled. No. No! He couldn't be back in his own mindscape, not _now_. 

He closed his eyes, gripping his head tightly between his hands. “No, no, _no_ , I’m trying to keep you out! You can’t bring me back here!”

All around him, Bill laughed, and the sound passed through his hands no matter how hard he pressed them to his ears.

“I’M IMPRESSED YOU THOUGHT YOU COULD STOP ME! BUT I THINK YOU’RE MISSING OUT ON ONE MORE PARTY, STANFORD PINES.”

Stanford shook his head furiously. “Don’t call me that!”

“OHHHH, NOT ON A FIRST-NAME BASIS ANYMORE, ARE WE, SIXER?”

“Stop it! Get out of my head!”

Bill’s laughter doubled on itself. “ALL IN DUE TIME, MR. SMART GUY!”

Wind rushed against Stanford’s face, cold against the slick blood on his hands, and he collapsed to his knees. When he opened his eyes, he discovered that the mindscape was crumbling around him, the dirt of the ground giving way to the white uncertainty of the void beneath the skin of his kneecaps. He let go of his head to grasp at the ground in front of him, hanging on to patches of grass that blackened even as he touched them.

“BILL!” yelled Stanford.

“DON’T YOU MEAN _YOU_?” Bill cackled, his voice piercing Stanford’s ears.

The last slip of grass dissolved in the grip of his fingers, and he was floating.

Stanford’s eyes snapped open.

He was in his workplace again, and the images of Bill were still safely covered, and he was sitting at his desk.

He could _see_ himself sitting at his desk.

“No!” Stanford shouted, propelling himself forward just as he—not him, it _wasn’t him_ , it was just his _body_ —sat up.

Stanford looked in horror at the slitted pupils, the uncanny wideness of his own grin.

“I ALWAYS FORGET HOW SATISFYING THIS IS!” Bill declared, planting Stanford’s hands on Stanford’s hips. “A WHOLE VESSEL JUST TO DO WHAT I WANT!” He ran Stanford’s along his head. “I LIKE WHAT YOU’VE DONE WITH THE HAIR! BOLD LOOK!”

“Bill! You can’t do this! Let me back in! _Get out of my body!_ ”

“DON’T WORRY ABOUT IT, SIXER! I’M JUST GIVING YOU A HAND!”

Bill kept his eyes fixed on Stanford’s as his fingers felt for, and closed around, the bloody scalpel.

“No!” Stanford dove straight at his body, driving himself forward, waiting for contact, anticipating the sharp friction of contact, of regaining control.

Instead, he passed directly _through_ his body and floated out the opposite side, behind the chair.

“What have you done?” Stanford demanded. “Let me back into _my body_ , Bill! This isn’t part of our deal!”

“IF I RECALL, WE HAD A DEAL! YOU SURE KNOW HOW TO HURT A GUY!”

“Bill, you’ve gone too far! Give me my body back!”

Bill widened the smile on Stanford’s face. He blinked, eyes closing in uneven succession, and raised the scalpel. “OH, I WILL, SIXER. I WILL. I’M JUST GIVING YOU ONE LAST THING TO REMEMBER ME BY!”

Stanford hovered helplessly beside his own body as Bill pressed the scalpel to his head and cut along a third, ragged edge.

Blood dripped off the scalpel to the floor. Bill tweaked experimentally at the incisions and then cackled, the sound echoing unnaturally in the small, enclosed space. He cast the scalpel aside and grabbed the metal plate.

“DIDN’T WANT TO USE PAINKILLERS, HUH? GOOD CHOICE! BUT WE BOTH KNEW I’D SHOW UP ANYWAY! WOULDN’T WANT TO MISS OUT ON THIS KIND OF FUN!”

The entire left side of Stanford’s face was covered in blood now. He fought to remain calm. He needed to get back into his body, now. Bill might be trying to kill him, or worse, lock himself inside Stanford’s body _permanently_ , and he knew which of those was worse. But with no body of his own, stopping Bill from possessing his own was futile.

“YIKES, SIXER, THAT’S A LOT OF BLOOD!” Bill remarked as he aligned the plate against Stanford’s skull. “HERE YOU GO—SOMETHING TO REMEMBER ME BY!”

And he shoved the metal plate under the skin, his laughter folding in on itself, magnifying in a horrendous three-way echo. Stanford’s body wavered and Bill threw out his free hand to prevent himself from falling.

“OH BOY, LOOKS LIKE SOMEONE’S GETTING WOOZY! THIS IS FUN!”

Keeping one hand against his head to keep the plate in place, Bill hunted for the needle and thread. Stanford had already threaded it, knowing that it wouldn’t be easy to stitch his own skin, and Bill picked it up triumphantly.

“SURE IS HARD TO DO THIS STANDING UP! UNLESS YOU’RE ME! HA HA HA!”

Bill looped the needle through the first incision, and Stanford watched, unable to move, as the stitches gradually closed the cuts along his half-shaved head.

“THERE YOU GO! NOW I CAN’T GET BACK IN, STANFORD, HOW DO YOU LIKE THAT?”

“You’re in my body right now!” Stanford protested. “How will it keep you out?”

Bill flapped one of Stanford’s own hands at him. “SO MANY QUESTIONS! I THOUGHT YOU WERE DONE TALKING TO ME, STANFORD PINES. DID YOU CHANGE YOUR MIND?” He yanked tight at the stitches, and Stanford’s body started to tremble.

“I was supposed to do this myself!”

“YEAH, WELL, WE ALL NEED A HAND SOMETIMES TO GET WHAT WE WANT! YOU OF ALL PEOPLE SHOULD KNOW THAT! DON’T WORRY, I’M NOT STICKING AROUND! ALL THAT METAL MAKES ME SICK!”

“Get out of my head!” Stanford commanded, and Bill made his body shrug in response.

“I’M OUTTA HERE! JUST REMEMBER TO THANK OLD BILL FOR THE PRESENT! THINK OF ME NOW AND THEN! MAYBE WHILE YOU’RE CLEANING UP ALL THIS BLOOD! HA HA HA!”

Stanford felt a rush just as his body collapsed forward, crumpling to the floor, and he was overcome with a wave of intense pain along the left side of his head, stinging and burning and carving deep into his skull.

In front of him, the floor was smeared with his own blood. He tried to push up his head to get a better view, to see if Bill was still in the room, but everything was silent beyond the pounding in his ears, the dull rush of blood to his head.

“A-are you still there?” he croaked, but his vision was swimming, and his eyes refused to stay open. A scream gathered in the depths of his throat, crawling its way to his mouth, and with a howl of pain, Stanford Pines passed out cold on his workroom floor.

* * *

Above him, just barely invisible beyond the limits of human sight, Bill Cipher hovered with his arms outstretched.

He regarded the man lying unconscious on the floor, blood coagulating along the uneven stitches digging into his skin. Bill laughed, letting the sound double over itself until it was a layered, resonant scream of infinite humor. “HAVE FUN WITH YOUR NEW TOY! SURE WILL BE FUN WHEN YOU DREAM OF ME, SIXER!”

Still laughing, he winked out of Stanford’s life.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading.
> 
> Title taken from a lyric in "Head Is Not My Home," by MS MR. Turns out a lot of their songs are good for writing about Ford.


End file.
